Trumpet Smuggling Motherfucker! by Paul Tristram

It had been a bad morning, first of all I got caught smoking opposite the cricket nets by the
side of the drama hall, there were around twenty of us standing and sitting about but I was the
only one who didn’t see the teacher approaching. I was sitting on a little brick wall someone
had knocked up during a construction class, with my head down, spitting a anarchy symbol
into the loose cement dust between my scuffed Sergeant Peppers boots (I’m artistic like that)
It was the sniggering and giggling which first snapped me back from my other place, I lifted
my head, a No. 6 dangling from my lips to see one of the drama teachers looking down at me
with a big sunshine smile upon his face, I smiled back, ripping the cigarette from my mouth
and casting it to the floor.
“So now you’re littering Paul? Why don’t you pick your little cancerous friend back up and
escort it to the headmasters room!”
I didn’t know this teacher, except by sight but he obviously knew me, I bent down, whilst
walking and grabbed the smouldering dog-end from the ground and replaced it in my mouth
and took a drag and headed towards the main building.
There was a shout from behind me, I turned, his smile was gone completely, replaced with
something I was far more comfortable and familiar with, I smirked.
“You little Bastard! Put that cigarette out this instant and take it to the headmaster unlit. You
made me swear, I can’t believe you actually made me swear, tell the headmaster that you also
made me swear in indignation, I will be checking with him later!”
What a load of crap, why not just leave the fag on the ground in the first place with all the
other butts laying there and just send me to the headmasters room? I’d have gone, I was no
longer afraid of their laws and rules anyway. I’d already had the rugby tog across the thighs
and the metal rulers across the knuckles a few times, I’d stopped walking out of detention
awhile ago, now I just didn’t bother turning up in the first place.
No, he had to try and embarrass me, didn’t he, well, it backfired and I embarrassed him, I
wasn’t scared of him and he knew it, he was nothing to me and he hated me for it, oh well,
life’s hard, innit.
The headmaster shook his head and smiled
“Well, at least you weren’t fighting this time or climbing in the girls changing room
windows. I expelled your brother a few months back and he’s in that place down Port Talbot,
rough as rats down there but I’m sure he’s told you all about it?”
“He, likes it there.”
“Really? Look, one more big thing and you’re going the same way as him, only not to Port
Talbot, you’ll be going off to The Farm School up the Cimla where the real naughty boys go.
I’ve already been speaking to them about you, I’ll give you 2 months and you’ll be gone, now
get out of my sight!”
He was wrong, I lasted 6 months, 6 weeks of those were summer holidays but I proved him
wrong, slightly…yet, wrong all the same.
After leaving his office, I started wandering aimlessly around by the dinner hall, trying to
decide what to do with myself, I didn’t really feel like another lesson and was contemplating
going munging (leaving the school premises without permission) when I heard the fire alarm
and saw my mate Slave running towards me laughing and shouting “Scatter!”
I found out later that a girl he’d fancied for ages, Jessica had promised him ‘free feels’ at
dinnertime if he’d punch her older brother (he’d grassed her up to their ‘rents for smoking)
and got her off art. He’d done both within seconds of each other, her brothers nose was
bleeding and she would now go to the nurses room complaining of a migraine and shock
from the fire scare.
We ran back past the headmasters room, took a right through the double doors, leaving them
swinging like cowboy saloon doors behind us and burst into the long corridor which was
busy with people doing their in between class thing.
We were still at a half run when this force came swooping from the right of me and had me
up against the far wall with a crunch, nearly taking the wind out of me. It was Mr Midlands,
the girls typing teacher, the only teacher everyone was scared of, I wasn’t scared of him, I
just didn’t like him, my Father had knocked him out with a head-butt in The Grandison Pub
a few years back.
I winced my eyes as the spit flew in my face and he screamed like a mad man,
“W-W-Who’s Got You N-N-Now, Boy-y-y?”
“You have, by the bloody throat, sir!”
He laughed, tried to compose himself, then chuckled
“I mean which teacher and class are you going to?”
Slave saw the opportunity and jumped right in, he grabbed hold of two confused first formers
walking past and looking as angelic as he could exclaimed excitedly,
“He’s a hero, sir! He was busily leading us all to safety from the fire, he should get a star of
distinction for this, sir!”
“There is no fire, it’s a prank, all the alarms go off if there’s a fire…now sod off to class the
lot of you and no running in the corridors!”
We walked off smiling, then started talking about going munging, I was all up for selling
some of our dinner tickets (we come from council estates and poor families) and going down
the back lanes to Cat the Rat’s flat (short for Catherine) and getting her to go up the shop to
buy us a flagon of cider. She was a hell of a woman her, all the boys went round there, she
was 19 years old with 2 kids and her own council place, as long as one of you went in the
bedroom with her she would let everyone else hang around her living room and drink, sniff
glue and smoke dope.
Slave said he wasn’t into it, there was only one more lesson before dinner break and he
wanted to be around to see if Jessica was going to pay up on the ‘free feels’ she now owed
him, besides Emily Magic would be there and she had declared to everyone that it was time
she gave someone rubs and I was the lucky winner.
The next class was Music, we were 13 years old, next year we would have ‘Options’ and
would be able to pick which lessons we wanted but right now we were stuck with what we
were given.
I hated Music, the lesson that is, all that classical crap that the posh idiots listen too, boring,
Mrs Price the teacher had told us all to bring in a single of our favourite song at the end of
term last year, everyone brought in ‘Adam & The Ants’ ‘Madness’ or ‘The Specials’
I took in ‘Crass – Bloody Revolutions’ she played exactly 4 seconds of it.
Anyway, in we walked, Emily Magic had saved me a seat next to her on the back row,
everyone smiled as I walked on over, it was common knowledge, the reason she had picked
Music class to do this was because Mrs Price suffered from headaches and turned half of the
lights off in the class, the other reason was that she got so into all her Mozart crap that she
almost forgot we were there.
I liked Emily, I was quite happy to be friends with her if she wanted to be but she wasn’t my
type, I liked bad girls a year or two older and she was a nice girl, very pretty and …well,
lovely, too lovely for me.
Almost as soon as I had sat down, she slid her trembling hand over onto my lap, she let it lay
there for a second or three, all shaking and nervous and then started stroking, my cock flew
into life instantly, trust me a teenage boys cock has a mind and a life of its own, it only takes
the fucking wind to change direction and all hell breaks loose.
I couldn’t watch TV at home anymore, the moment Christina Applegate walked through the
door in ‘Married With Children’ I had to get up and leave the room sideways, even some of
the adverts…Jesus, it was like genital Russian roulette and my house was always full of
people, I was glad to grow up, I can tell thee.
The stroking got harder and firmer, the people on the nearest tables around us started
whispering and giggling, after a minute or so the murmuring had spread to the front of the
classroom and Mrs Price turned around to investigate but could see nothing amiss so carried
on talking shit and writing on the blackboard.
Then Emily’s best friend Debra leaned over from the next table were she was sitting with
Slave and said, a little more loudly than was needed
“Pull his zip down, get his cock out and give us all a gander!”
Five or six other girls laughed loudly at this and Mrs Price spun around angrily, Emily slowly
moved her hand from my lap but was blushing fiercely and that drew Mrs Price’s eyes like a
beacon, she looked from Emily’s face to me and half yelled
“Stand up Paul!”
“Nuh!”
“What do you mean No? Stand up right now!”
“Nuh!”
“If you do not get up onto your feet this instant I am sending up the corridor for Mr
Midlands!”
There was no way out of it, I rose up out of my chair slowly, I was wearing sta press
trousers and my hard on was at full mast, sticking out in front of me like a right old beauty, if I’d had
jeans on they might have deflected some of the fanfare going on down there but no, I was in
sta press and you could practically see the veins through the thin yet extremely trendy cloth.
The more I tried to ‘Will’ the Bastard down, the stronger it got, it was like throbbing iron and
just when I thought that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I felt a dribble of pre-
cum
escaping like a sneak-thief through a back lane gate…and of course I didn’t wear underwear
(at least not in those days) and the sta press were light grey, so my pre-cum was merely
seconds away from everyone seeing it.
When I was finally stood upright, the room went silent, followed by gasps and then laughter,
Mrs Price, went purple and her face started twitching neurotically as she hissed
“Sit down immediately, you animal!….Emily, swap seats with Slave!”

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036  And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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